Fable III: A Woman Scorned
by Sir Jason Kidd Gray
Summary: Born into poverty as the illegitimate daughter of a Hero, Page struggled to survive while keeping her Heroic lineage a secret. When the Prince incites a rebellion, Page is drawn into the action. Along the journey, Page discovers herself, adventure, romance, and danger to become the Hero she was meant to be. PLEASE REVIEW AND FOLLOW!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fable, Page, or any of the game-based settings from this story. They are the property of Peter Molyneaux and Lionhead Studios. I don't receive money from this story, so please don't sue me.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Our Story Begins.**

**Updated 5/12/2014**

"Come get a beautiful gift for the one you love! Chocolates, flowers, we have all sorts!"

"Delicious vegetables, fresh from my garden!"

"Fruit pies! Get your fruit pies here! Hot, fresh fruit pies!"

It was glacial winter morning in Bowerstone Old Quarter's market square. Fresh, crisp white snow lined the cobblestone street, blanketing the shingles of the ramshackle houses lining the market square and crunching under the feet of shopping pedestrians. Salty air wafted over the market from the nearby harbor and carried in hungry seagulls to swoop and dive among the littered streets. Vendors, dressed in clothes as humble as the earth and as colorful as the rainbow, crowded the market with the clamor of their goods for sale.

"Tofu! Apples! Get your healthy selections here!"

"Avoid unwanted pregnancies with a selection of protective condoms!"

"Right out the oven fruit pies!"

The twelve-year-old girl known as Page only had ears and eyes for one seller's wares. Clad in the dusty gray coat common to all chimney sweeps in Bowerstone—which was her occupation, as far as any twelve-year-old girl could have an occupation—Page shivered slightly in the cold morning breeze from the harbor. She brushed the soot off her dingy gray rags and strode to the fruit pie stand.

"Hot, delicious fruit pies! Get your fruit pies here!"

Page cleared her throat. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Won't find none better in all of Bowerstone!"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Hot fruit pies, straight out the oven!"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Hot, fresh fruit pies!"

Page tugged at the hem of the vendor's bulky overcoat. He must not have her, as small as she was. Like most orphans who wandered the streets of Bowerstone, working as shoe shiners, chimney sweeps, and window washers, Page wasn't tall or big for her age. Despite the life lessons she had gained from living on the streets, her voice still possessed a childish naïveté. The vendor loomed over six feet tall with a prominent belly, shocking red hair, red mustache, and red beard framing his ruddy face. His voice thundered. Page hated sounding like a child. "Excuse me, sir?"

The man finally glared down. During her glimpses of Bowerstone Market, Page often saw gentlemen glare at her the way the fruit pie vendor did. She wasn't welcome at his stand unless he knew she had the gold requisite to purchase his wares. "What do you want, darky girl?"

"How much for a fruit pie, sir?"

"Five copper pieces, darky."

Page reached into her shabby pocket in her coat and extracted seven copper coins. They were her wages from a week's worth of knocking on the doors of strangers, quietly asking to clean, lugging her own brush and bucket into their homes, and then crawling around in the cramped spaces of their chimneys to clean thoroughly. Page only asked for two copper coins for her work. She had cleaned eight chimneys that week.

Page offered the coins to the man. He huffed in his unrepentant initiation of the offer and snatched Page's coins from her. The vendor counted the coins and shoved them into his pocket.

"Hot, fresh fruit pies! Get your fruit pies here!"

She shivered in the cold, salty harbor breeze. A fruit pie would warm up her hands, her stomach, and probably nourish her for the week ahead. The coat was shabby and too threadbare for much in the way of protection.

"Fruit pies, get your fruit pies here!"

Page pulled on the hem of the man's coat again. He glared at her again. "What do you want?"

"Sir, I just paid for a fruit pie. I gave you my money, sir. May I please have one?"

The fat red man frowned. "I told you it cost five coppers, and you didn't have enough."

"I had…I had five coppers."

"You must have counted wrong, darky. You didn't have enough."

"Sir, can I get my coppers back? Please, sir, it's all I had."

"Go away."

"But…."

"Go away, darky girl."

"Sir…."

"I said, 'go away.' Or else I'll call one of the town guards to throw you into jail for harassing me."

Page's dark blue eyes welled with tears. She didn't blink, because that would've made the tears tumble down. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying. "Sir, please…"

"This is your last chance, darky. Go away."

She sniffled and walked down the snow-covered cobblestones with her grimy hands in grimy fingerless gloves shoved into empty, grimier pockets. When she was out of the fruit pie vendor's sight, Page allowed a few tears to fall from her eyes. She quickly wiped them away as she wandered down alleys.

How was she to get more money? At twelve—at least, by her reckoning of her own age—Page was taller and less adorable than the younger girls who begged for money on the side of the cobblestoned streets. She passed a few of them, even in the alleys. They ignored her while stretching out hands just as wretched as hers at any passing gentleman or merchant. Older girls stood on the side of the streets in outfits that would shame respectable women—a profession Page could hardly consider. And the older women usually begged with one or two of their children at their side.

Page hadn't eaten for four days. There was no telling when she would eat again. Feeling utterly defeated, the dark-skinned girl wandered down an alley, sat in a puddle of icy melt water, and sobbed into her hands.

If she sat in that position all day, she could freeze to death. Page had seen it happen to a girl before. Frozen or starved to death, every girl like her had to end some way.

"There is no use in crying, Page. It will not satisfy your hunger. In fact, tears will only increase it."

Page locked up through her dark blue eyes at the elderly woman who had spoken. The girl hadn't seen the woman arrive. From where she sat on the ground, Page could make out the woman's milky white blind eyes, slender nose, and gray locks of silky hair beneath the woman's red-and-white humble cotton hood. In one outstretched hand, the woman offered Page a shiny red apple.

"It's fresh. And you need your strength."

The girl didn't need further prompting. She snatched up the apple and bit into it. It was juicy, delicious, and undeniably the best taste she had had all week long. Page had heard the tale of a beautiful princess with snow white skin who bit into a poisoned apple and fell into a sleep that could only be broken by a prince's kiss. As she was neither fair-skinned nor a princess, Page felt she was safe.

While she ate her apple, the woman talked to her. "Today is a very important day for you, Page. It's the first day of your journey to fulfill your destiny."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have lived in ignorance of the road that lies ahead of you for too long. The way forward requires bold actions. You should not be afraid to take what is rightfully yours—a fruit pie, for instance."

"From the fruit pie seller?" Page asked incredulously. She tossed aside the stem of the apple and spat out its seeds. She had heard that if she ate the seeds, they would grow into a tree inside her. "Lady, who are you?"

"My name is Theresa. I'm certain we will soon become very good acquaintances."

"What's that supposed to mean? Are you going to take me home with you?" That happened, sometimes, to lucky and younger children. A couple would see one of the young begging boys or girls—five or six years old, at the most—take them by the hand, and a few weeks later, when Page saw them again, they were well-dressed, clean, well-fed. And above all else, they were happy. Page was already twelve.

"No, I cannot do that."

"Have you lived on the streets of Bowerstone?"

"I have lived in poverty before, at a time before you were even thought of. And I was resourceful. In order to survive as I have, you must be."

"Then you know it is impossible to steal from a food vendor, unless I wish to die."

"Or unless you are meant for something greater."

"What else could I be meant for?" the girl asked with a quizzical expression drawn on her face.

Theresa smiled and scanned with her blind eyes the house to her right and behind Page. It was an old house—as were most of the houses in the district, hence its name—and was constructed of mortared bricks on the ground floor with a second floor of wood. A gutter trailed along the second floor roof and ran down the side of the house in a rusty metal rainspout. It used to be a grand house, but salt and time had aged the wood and worn the bricks.

"Have you ever climbed a house before?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should try."

Page stared up the rainspout's length. Her blue eyes studied the gutter. "That doesn't seem safe at all. Why should I climb the rainspout?"

"Great heights tend to give people greater perspectives. And, if you should have any difficulty while climbing, just think of the wind to push you further."

Theresa walked away and disappeared as quickly as she had come. Page watched her depart and stared back at the gutter. Like a retreating wave in the harbor at high tide, Theresa's departure exposed the thousand grainy sands of the Old Quarter streets conversations. One stood out more than any other.

"Fruit pies for sale here! Come and get your hot, fresh fruit pies!"

The vendor's beckoning reignited Page's anger. She turned her gaze in his direction, and noticed that a rainspout emerged from behind the apple pie vendor like a detached metal tail. Page followed it with her eyes, up the brick  
façade of a house to the gutter framing its perimeter. That gutter nearly touched the gutter of the house next to it, which nearly touched the gutter of the house next it.

And that gutter was very near to the gutter of the house over Page's head.

Page leaped at the rainspout at street level. The sides were too slick. She lost her grip and fell the few inches to the wet, dirty cobbles almost immediately. Page brushed off her filthy clothes. Glaring at the rusty metal spout, she flexed her icy cold fingers. _'Like the wind,'_ she thought.

She took four steps backward and rubbed her cold hands together. When she ran at the rainspout a second time, Page actually lifted off the ground and seemed to hover just so slightly. Page clung to the spout as though she would die. She was no further off the ground than she was tall.

_'Like the wind,'_ Page thought. She reached up with her left hand and a grunt, and began to scale the rainspout. In the Alban countryside, a girl of eight might climb trees without any difficulty at all. In Bowerstone, climbing skills were as difficult to perfect as hog-raising. Page had never climbed anything higher than a stair before with her bare hands, but she took to scaling the rainspout with natural affinity. She leaped over gaps in the rainspout without a hint of worrying. It was as though the air didn't want to let Paige fall.

When Page reached the second-floor roof of the house, she faced a greater challenge—going from one rooftop to the next in order to reach the fruit pie seller. She backed to the opposite side of the roof, feeling it creaking beneath her footsteps. _'Like the wind.'_ Page ran and leaped just before hitting the void between the houses. As light as cloth in the breeze, she floated across the void between houses. Her footsteps landed lightly.

_'Like the wind.'_ Almost without hesitation, Page ran and leaped from that roof to the next. She landed as lightly on the third roof as she had on the second. Page ran toward the next roof and leaped again. She hadn't sweat, and she wasn't out of breath. It was more exertion than Page had accomplished before.

"Fruit pies; none better in all of Bowerstone!"

The vendor's call reminded Page why she had climbed on the rooftop to begin with. He stood in the market below her, hawking his wares. Without a moment's hesitation, Page scaled her way down the rainspout, crept off it, and hid behind the vendor's back. He was selling finally to another customer.

"Why, yes, madam, these fruit pies are made from the finest whole barley dough, goat milk, and apples."

"Yes," the doughy, middle-aged female customer responded, "but is it made with any nuts of any kind?"

"Er, no, madam, they are not. Are you choosing to buy some now?"

While he was distracted, Page lunged for a fruit pie. Before she could withdraw her hand, the fruit pie vendor seized her wrist in his pudgy hand. "So, you're back to pilfer from me, girl thief? I'll have you taken to the town jail as soon as any boy, count on that."

The fruit pie seller had a firm grip on Page's shoulder as he dragged her through the dirty, snow-covered streets of Bowerstone. "Just you wait until the town guard hears about what you've done. Stealing, _and_ from a private person in broad daylight. Hah! It's the stocks for you, little sneak!"

"Let me go! Let me go, now!" Page yelled. She slapped and clawed at the vendor's hand. His grip slipped to her slim arm, and Page renewed her struggle with more vigor. Then she recalled Theresa's words as though the old blind woman were speaking directly in her ear. _'"Like the wind."'_

Suddenly Page was freed.

The fruit pie seller pushed through the crowd a few feet ahead of her and turned back, as if to speak more of his venomous threats to her—and saw that his hand was empty. He glanced around and made eye contact with Page. "Hey!"

Page ran away. "Hey, you come back here! Come back here, you little thief! Come back here!"

Page darted through the thick crowd in the street, occasionally bumping into people meandering through the streets of Old Quarter. _'There are so many people out here today, more than usual. If I were a pickpocket, I could clean up.'_

"Thief! Thief!" the vendor yelled from somewhere behind her.

_'If I can just make it to Industrial or to the old quay, I can lose him.'_ Every time she glanced back though, he was only a few steps behind her, shoving his way through the crowd without her agility. _'I've got to move faster! What did Theresa say? Oh, yeah: Like the wind.'_

Suddenly Page was far ahead of the fruit pie vendor by a few dozen steps rather than a few steps. She glanced back and didn't see the procession of soldiers marching up the main street of Old Quarter from the harbor. The first blast of golden trumpets, from men in starched and pressed dark blue uniforms, caught Page off guard. She stopped in her tracks in the middle of the street—and collided with a tall, elegantly dressed man who had long, graying, dark chocolate hair.

It was the king of Albion, Sparrow Lionheart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thanks are in order for Wildfire707 for writing a review on this story, and to innerMalice, Wildfire707, and IKilledKennyYES for adding this story to your list of followed stories. I apologize for the delay in the update. Work and family stuff have consumed a lot of my time lately. I will be working to update more frequently during the summer because I will have more free time in my schedule. **

**Review and follow!**

* * *

**Chapter 2: Our Story Continues**

The procession stopped in its tracks as soon as the King did. Page lay at the King's feet on her back, accidentally blocking his path while she stared up at him in awe. Everything about the king radiated majesty: His long locks of hair, trimmed just enough to be civil, but long enough to be roguish; his purple royal suit; the ermine-trimmed cape down his back; and the knee-high black leather boots polished until Page saw her own reflection as in a mirror. Her fear blocked all other thoughts from Page's mind, except the desire to instantly become invisible.

The King of Albion stared down at Page with one gray eyebrow raised. He bent down and lifted Page off the ground by the two forefingers of his left hand. It was not a gesture of disgust, but Page recognized the king's strength and her own frailty in that moment. "What is this?"

"I'm not a what. I'm a who." The king frowned. _'Maybe I should have kept that to myself.'_

When the ruler of Albion laughed, his entire entourage laughed with him as one unit. Holding Page by a shred of cloth, the King proclaimed loudly enough for his voice to reverberate off the walls of the houses around them, "It's a little girl, but she's as light as a feather! What is your name, Feather girl?"

Page hesitated and glanced around the crowded snow-covered streets. _'I'm talking to the King of Albion! I need to get away!'_

On one side of the street, the fruit pie vendor emerged from the crowd like a volcanic island in a sea of heads. His rage purpled his face, but Page was secure in the grip of King Sparrow. Page glanced to the other side of the street and spotted Theresa standing in the crowd, distinctive in her red and white robe. Her shrouded head slowly shook.

Her meaning was clear. There was no escape for Page, and even an orphaned beggar, such as she was, knew it was unwise to keep the King of Albion waiting for an answer.

"Page, your Highness; my name is Page."

"Page." The king seemed to roll her name around in his mouth, like a morsel he intended to savor. His next words were not proclaimed but kept as quiet between the two of them as a secret. "Well, Page, I too lived on the streets of Bowerstone when I was very young. And when Avo places a street urchin at my feet, I am inclined to show kindness and favor to such people."

In a loud voice, King Sparrow proclaimed, "Let Page be placed in a chariot beside my wife and my sons, and she shall be entertained tonight at Bowerstone Castle as an honored guest!" The crowd cheered and applauded. Page, however, smiled nervously.

_'__What have I gotten into?'_

The carriage ride to Bowerstone Castle was the beginning of Page's experience with finery. She had never seen such finery as King Sparrow lived in, and Page was abject in her sense of awe. The carriage in which the Queen and two Princes rode was ivory silk decorated with gold satin, and was scented with a rich, heady aroma.

Queen Charlotte reminded Page of a swan. Svelte despite her years of childbearing and refined in every aspect of her radiant appearance, Page did not feel worthy of her gaze. Page offered the Queen a shaky "Hello," but Queen Charlotte turned pale beneath her makeup, shivered, and fanned herself with an expensive foreign made fan from the Orient.

_'__The Queen is taken ill with the very sight of me,' _Page thought. _'She won't even look in my direction. I'm beneath her.'_ They didn't talk during the entire carriage ride to Bowerstone Castle. Page didn't even know what to say to the Queen anyway.

The princes were equally reticent. Prince Logan, the heir to the throne of Albion, sat on Page's right in a blue silk jacket and blue silk knee-knocking pants with black leather shoes with gold buckles. He didn't even afford Page a glance. The younger prince, Lark, wore an identical suit, except his was a golden shade of yellow. Although he stared at Page throughout the carriage ride to the Castle, he did not speak.

When they reached Bowerstone Castle, Queen Charlotte and a small squadron of armed guards escorted the princes up the grand staircase. "I'm not feeling well, my love. I will leave you with your charity case," Queen Charlotte called after Sparrow.

"Very well, dear; get your rest. I hope you had a lovely ride with her?"

"'Lovely' isn't the word I would use, Sparrow."

Page was left to feel awed by the high ceilings, stained glass windows, and the army of servants bustling about the castle. _'I don't belong here.'_

"Come along, Page," the king said to her. She obediently followed behind him when King Sparrow turned left down a hallway with green carpet and passed through an elaborate dining room. A chandelier filled with crystals caught the sun and made a flurry of colors dance on the walls. The table and chairs gleamed with freshly applied polish. Prue glanced at the table and caught a glimpse of her own reflection. She looked terrified.

"The moment I saw you, I recognized you for what you are. It shouldn't surprise me," the king said over his right shoulder, "what with you being a street urchin as well. Do you have any other family?"

"No, sir, your Majesty." _'"Street urchin?" If he wasn't the King of Albion, I'd show him a "street urchin" and kick him in his leg!'_

King Sparrow turned right down a hallway and walked through a set of gold handled double doors. Page followed. The hallway led to a high-ceiling two story room with each wall (except the fourth) lined with shelves of books. At the center of the room, an illuminated globe on a mahogany stand stood, with several red velvet armchairs around it. The fourth wall of the room was a two-story polished and cut glass window.

"That's rare. The entire history is dominated by orphans, but there are few only children."

"My mother died giving birth to me. I was raised by my grandmother, and she died two winters ago."

"I am sorry for your loss, but I hope it will make you all the stronger." Sparrow walked confidently to the corner furthest from the door. Page followed and watched the king skim the shelves.

"Let's see…_A History of Heroes, Volume One,_" Sparrow pulled the top of the spine, and Page heard a clicking sound from behind the bookcase. "Then there's _The Greatest Guild Heroes_, _The Hero of Oakvale_, and _Reaver on Reaver._" Each time the king pulled the spine of a book, it triggered a clicking sound in the back of the bookcase. The bookcase rang inwardly and revealed a long stone staircase descending into the bowels of the Castle.

"Follow me, Page."

Page backed from the bookcase, shaking her head. She had heard tales of children, especially little girls, disappearing in the homes of strange men. The king of Albion didn't seem a likely candidate for that kind of behavior, but Page had no experience with those sorts of men. "Where are we going?"

King Sparrow knelt down before her and held Page between his two hands. "Page, I will not hurt you. I promise that. If I'm right about you, your life is about to change for the better. I have to run a test on you. It's the same one I had to undergo. Do you trust me?"

Page nodded. Sparrow took her hand and led her to an underground chamber with a single door marked by four symbols carved in differently colored stones. At the top, there was a red triangle with a single flame glowing within the stone. On the left there was a yellow circle with a sharpshooter's symbol carved into it, but Page only saw three circles with two lines crossing them. The third symbol, to the right side of the door, was a blue square with a sword carved into the stone.

In the center of the door, there was a white stone with the figure of a man carved into it. His head touched the red stone. His left arm and leg touched the yellow stone. His right arm and leg touched the blue stone. "Through here, your destiny awaits," Sparrow said profoundly.

"What do these carvings mean?" Page asked.

"They represent the different disciplines required of a Hero. Blue is the color for Melee; red is the color for the discipline of Will; and yellow is the color of Skill."

"What happens behind the door?"

"Your test awaits."

King Sparrow opened the door, and Page walked through. Strange symbols were carved on the floor. When Page stepped into the center of the room, the symbols glowed red. Their light surrounded Page. "What's happening?" she asked, frightened.

King Sparrow was surprised but quickly closed his mouth. He smiled quietly. "I will explain in a moment, when I am certain of my suspicions. Come with me, Page."

He turned and started up the stairs to the library. When he took the first step, the light around Page faded away. She followed the king to the library. Her arms and legs had a strange tingling. The bookcase behind her swung shut, and Page waited a few heartbeats. She felt different somehow, altered. "What happened to me?"

Sparrow rubbed his bearded chin between the thumb and index finger of his left hand in thought. He motioned to one of the armchairs, and Page sat down. "The test you just endured was a measure of your Heroic potential. In recent generations, Heroes such as I am have been from the mixing of humans with Heroes. There is, in particular, a prophecy I read about a Hero to come after me."

The king went to a bookcase and removed a heavy, red bound tome with yellowed and dusty parchment pages. He set it on the table. "According to the prophecy…"

Before Sparrow finished his story, the doors of the library burst open and a guard in his crisp uniform rushed into the room. "Your Majesty!" He dropped to one knee, lowered his head, and stood up rapidly. "Queen Charlotte has taken ill. The physicians request you come at once!"

King Sparrow sprinted from the room, followed closely by the guard. Page approached the large book he had placed on the table, but she could not read the title. Her education had been limited to listening, sneaking, stealing, and seeing without being seen.

So she followed the guard, using the education she did have. _'How does anyone do this? All these passages and stairs, unless you know where you're going, you could get lost. Lucky me, I know how to move like the wind.'_ The guard led Page to a third floor corridor, where there were a set of double doors four times as tall as she was. The doors were ajar, and she saw people moving around within the room. _'Maybe that's where the king went?'_

Page approached the doors, and slipped into the room. Like every other room of the Castle, it was arranged richly. Its centerpiece was a magnificent four poster bed with velvet curtains drawn open. Everyone in the room stood around the bed because that was where the royal family had gathered.

King Sparrow sat on the side of the bed, holding his wife's right hand. Prince Logan lay across his mother's stomach, calling, "Mum! Mum!" Prince Lark knelt by her knees.

And Queen Charlotte lay on the bed, sweating profusely and gasping for air.

Her beautiful face had become ghastly pale. Her long brown hair was actually limp and lifeless, when it wasn't pinned up elaborately. King Sparrow rubbed Charlott'es hand and murmured words Page couldn't hear. She cowered by the door. _'If I just stand here in the shadows, no one will notice me.'_

When the Queen's eyes turned glassy and King Sparrow collapsed across the Queen's body, Page knew the queen had passed. In imitation of his older brother, Prince Lark crawled up to his mother's vacant face and cried loudly, "Mum! Mum!" Several courtiers dissolved into sobs. A serving girl collapsed to her knees bawling. A nobleman swooned and fainted on the floor.

Only Prince Logan noticed Page was there. He cut his dark eyes directly at her, with a look so cold, Page shivered. It was an expression of anger and vengeance. No one in the room stopped the prince as he stormed over to Page, and pushed her from the late queen's bedroom into the hallway. In the darkness of the hall, his eyes and his teeth seemed to glow with rage.

"You! She's dead because of you!"

"I-I-I didn't do…" Page stammered. Logan, who stood taller than her by at least two feet, slapped Page across her face.

"You killed my mother. She wasn't sick until she met you. You killed her, you street urchin! And I promise you, upon her cooling, dead body, that I will make every day of your life as miserable as you have made mine," Logan warned in a deadly cold voice. "That is my promise to you."


End file.
